Nothing much
to write today
it seems.

Start small.

Let's see you, coming in on the end of the week, one more bar shift to go, Wednesday Night Jazz at the Old Gaul.  Sunday, went to work, sick with a cold, sent home, went to bed and slept.  Monday, the star studded farewell party for the singer of the gypsy swing band mainstay of Jazz Nights.  Tuesday, free wine tasting upstairs by myself.  Up at a reasonable hour, in limbo before work.  Nothing much to say.  Checking account low.  I guess it's good I've been pulling five shift weeks, not made easier by having to be the closer each night.

I couldn't afford the new apartment.  God was telling me something.  True I'd been on an expensive trip for my aunt's wedding.  That was a stretch of eleven days without working, plus the rental car, the motel room, dining on the road purchases, gas, taking a dent out of my checking account in the slow months of summer.

Feeling sad again.  One should never turn down the offerings of that rare friendship which is a spiritual one.

The job is hard enough, but that money just isn't there to be living here in DC.



Waking up, day off, nervous.  The realization I've been greatly taken advantage of by the restaurant business.  Which left me with nothing.    All those years of work.  Modest contribution to Social Security, a bit of knowledge, a lot of friends, sure, but in this world you have to take care of yourself. One guy has been on my side a long time, encouraging me like my mother to find plan B.

What was plan B?  Had always thought myself something of a spiritually inclined mind...

But everyday, waking up with anxiety.  The knowledge this is working not working out.  You can only labor so much, and rent at the new place, one didn't even have the energy to move into it, even as low as could be was steep enough.

Thirty years since graduating college.  No resume to speak of, hardly any skill, no real profession.  The son of man.  The fuck-up.   No better than his days as a landscaper, living at home, good at watering plants, petting cats, talking to old people.  Basically lost.  A hard enough worker, sure, when it came to physical things, but is the Amherst grad supposed to end up as a laborer the rest of his life?  My father was angry with the English Department, for tanking my prospects at a decent academic life.  I'd shown up as a good student.  What happened?  Did they care?

Well, I was through the workweek at least.  A funeral service to go, a friend's father.  At least, yes, I had friends, the social life the barman has.  But really, what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck.  My brother permanently angry with me for my choices, for not "figuring it out."  My old mom  worried about me, etc., etc,

Not much you can do in one day to fix your own deep problems.  Change is very difficult.  But there is an odd good thing that comes through the habit of confession, of confessional writings.  You feel just slightly better.    You then aim for a peaceful evening, not biting off more than what you can chew.  Can't afford to go out, nor go on a date, nor buy a car.

I call mom.  She's sad she can't go visit Aunt Jean out in Saugus at the nursing home for her birthday. But there's no way that could happen.  I remind her our trip to Lee.  We have a nice conversation.  She retells a family story, on the subject of shoes:  when the Irish came here, tried to buy shoes, were told, no, you only bought one shoe for that price (crooked dealings.)  She's pleased I'm making the effort to go to my buddy Jason's father's memorial service way up Georgia Avenue.  "Take a cab," she says.  "I'll send you a little something in the mail."

I mention the Boston Globe headline, how climate change is heavily impacting New England.  We talk about Trump.  "I think it's the time for the wise spiritual being to arrive in  UFO and set things straight," I say, and she says I'd be just the guy to do it.

Climate response could in some way be comparable to our own bodily functions, the response to what we put into our system.   The body has its way of processing, our stool allowing for valuable biofeedback on how we process certain things.  Cheese ends up in little lumps at the other end of things, perhaps.  Perhaps more fiber would be a good thing.  Maybe alcohol leaves a burn in the gorge, to be avoided next time.  How does the nervous system feel?

Nature is telling us things.  Likewise with the mind, which responds as it does, a canary in a coal mine.  Will the new spirituality come up with a kind of dietary restriction, as older ones, for the planet, not just the body...

Are the bulk of out non-commercially related thoughts worth having?   Are they allowed?  Should they be entertained?  Or is one a crack-pot, a deviant for having them...

Mentions to the barman, "I finished your book," or, "how's your writing going," do not sometimes bring him pride.  "Your writing," the very sound of it, embarrassing.  What do you hope to accomplish?

And yet, everyday, you add a little more to the hodgepodge pile.  No one is a good writer, or everyone is.  It's just the weirdness to keep at it, to keep recording thoughts, and that's the basis of the effort.  That's all it is.